Chapter V (2)

The giddiness still clung to her as she climbed into the motor beside Sybil and they drove off down the lane which led from Brook Cottage to Pentlands. The road was a part of a whole tracery of lanes, bordered by hedges and old trees, which bound together the houses of the countryside, and at night they served as a promenade and meeting-place for the servants of the same big houses. One came upon them in little groups of three or four, standing by gates or stone walls, gossiping and giggling together in the darkness, exchanging tales of the life that passed in the houses of their masters, stories of what the old man did yesterday, and how Mrs. So-and-so only took one bath a week. There was a whole world which lay beneath the solid, smooth, monotonous surface that shielded the life of the wealthy, a world which in its way was full of mockery and dark secrets and petty gossip, a world perhaps fuller of truth because it lay hidden away where none--save perhaps Aunt Cassie, who knew how many fascinating secrets servants had--ever looked, and where there was small need for the sort of pretense which Olivia found so tragic. It circulated the dark lanes at night after the dinners of the neighborhood were finished, and sometimes the noisy echoes of its irreverent mockery rose in wild Irish laughter that echoed back and forth across the mist-hung meadows.

The same lanes were frequented, too, by lovers, who went in pairs instead of groups of three or four, and at times there were echoes of a different sort of merriment--the wild, half-hysterical laughter of some kitchen-maid being wooed roughly and passionately in some dark corner by a groom or a house-servant. It was a world which blossomed forth only at nightfall. Sometimes in the darkness the masters, motoring home from a ball or a dinner, would come upon an amorous couple, bathed in the sudden brilliant glare of motor-lights, sitting with their arms about each other against a tree, or lying half-hidden among a tangle of hawthorn and elder-bushes.

To-night, as Olivia and Sybil drove in silence along the road, the hot air was filled with the thick scent of the hawthorn-blossoms and the rich, dark odor of cattle, blown toward them across the meadows by the faint salt breeze from the marshes. It was late and the lights of the motor encountered no strayed lovers until at the foot of the hill by the old bridge the glare illuminated suddenly the figures of a man and a woman seated together against the stone wall. At their approach the woman slipped quickly over the wall, and the man, following, leaped lightly as a goat to the top and into the field beyond. Sybil laughed and murmured, “It’s Higgins again.”

It _was_ Higgins. There was no mistaking the stocky, agile figure clad in riding-breeches and sleeveless cotton shirt, and as he leaped the wall the sight of him aroused in Olivia a nebulous, fleeting impression that was like a half-forgotten memory. A startled fawn, she thought, must have scuttled off into the bushes in the same fashion. And she had suddenly that same strange, prickly feeling of terror that had affected Sabine on the night she discovered him hidden in the lilacs watching the ball.

She shivered, and Sybil asked, “You’re not cold?”

“No.”

She was thinking of Higgins and hoping that this was not the beginning of some new scrape. Once before a girl had come to her in trouble--a Polish girl, whom she helped and sent away because she could not see that forcing Higgins to marry her would have brought anything but misery for both of them. It never ceased to amaze her that a man so gnarled and ugly, such a savage, hairy little man as Higgins, should have half the girls of the countryside running after him.

* * * * *

In her own room she listened in the darkness until she heard the sound of Jack’s gentle breathing and then, after undressing, she sat for a long time at the window looking out across the meadows toward the marshes. There was a subdued excitement which seemed to run through all her body and would not let her sleep. She no longer felt the weariness of spirit which had let her slip during these last few months into a kind of lethargy. She was alive, more alive than she had ever been, even as a young girl; her cheeks were hot and flushed, so that she placed her white hands against them to feel a coolness that was missing from the night air; but they, too, were hot with life.

And as she sat there, the sounds from Sybil’s room across the hall died away and at last the night grew still save for the sound of her son’s slow breathing and the familiar ghostly creakings of the old house. She was alone now, the only one who was not sleeping; and sitting above the mist-hung meadows she grew more quiet. The warm rich scents of the night drifted in at the window, and again she became aware of a kind of voluptuousness which she had sensed in the air as she sat, hours earlier, on Sabine’s terrace above the sea. It had assailed her again as they drove through the lane across the low, marshy pastures by the river. And then in the figure of Higgins, leaping the wall like a goat, it had come with a shock to a sudden climax of feeling, with a sudden acuteness which even terrified her. It still persisted a little, the odd feeling of some tremendous, powerful force at work all about her, moving swiftly and quietly, thrusting aside and annihilating those who opposed it.

She thought again, “I am a little mad to-night. What has come over me?” And she grew frightened, though it was a different sort of terror from that which afflicted her at the odd moments when she felt all about her the presence of the dead who lived on and on at Pentlands. What she knew now was no terror of the dead; it was rather a terror of warm, passionate life. She thought, “This is what must have happened to the others. This is how they must have felt before they died.”

It was not physical death that she meant, but a death somehow of the soul, a death which left behind it such withered people as Aunt Cassie and Anson, the old woman in the north wing, and even a man so rugged and powerful as John Pentland, who had struggled so much more fiercely than the others. And she got a sudden sense of being caught between two dark, struggling forces in fierce combat. It was confused and vague, yet it made her feel suddenly ill in a physical sense. The warm feeling of life and excitement flowed away, leaving her chilled and relaxed, weary all at once, and filled with a soft lassitude, still looking out into the night, still smelling the thick odor of cattle and hawthorn-blossoms.

* * * * *

She never knew whether or not she had fallen asleep in the bergère by the window, but she did know that she was roused abruptly by the sound of footsteps. Outside the door of her room, in the long hallway, there was some one walking, gently, cautiously. It was not this time merely the creaking of the old house; it was the sound of footfalls, regular, measured, inevitable, those of some person of almost no weight at all. She listened, and slowly, cautiously, almost as if the person were blind and groping his way in the darkness, the step advanced until presently it came opposite her and thin slivers of light outlined the door that led into the hall. Quietly she rose and, still lost in a vague sense of moving in a nightmare, she went over to the door and opened it. Far down the long hall, at the door which opened into the stairway leading to the attic of the house, there was a small circle of light cast by an electric torch. It threw into a black silhouette the figure of an old woman with white hair whom Olivia recognized at once. It was the old woman escaped from the north wing. While she stood watching her, the figure, fumbling at the door, opened it and disappeared quickly into the stairway.

There was no time to be lost, not time even to go in search of the starched Miss Egan. The poor creature might fling herself from the upper windows. So, without stopping even to throw a dressing-gown about her, Olivia went quickly along the dark hall and up the stairway where the fantastic creature in the flowered wrapper had vanished.

The attic was an enormous, unfinished room that covered the whole of the house, a vast cavern of a place, empty save for a few old trunks and pieces of broken furniture. The flotsam and jetsam of Pentland life had been stowed away there, lost and forgotten in the depths of the big room, for more than a century. No one entered it. Since Sybil and Jack had grown, it remained half-forgotten. They had played there on rainy days as small children, and before them Sabine and Anson had played in the same dark, mysterious corners among broken old trunks and sofas and chairs.

Olivia found the place in darkness save for the patches of blue light where the luminous night came in at the double row of dormer windows, and at the far end, by a group of old trunks, the circle of light from the torch that moved this way and that, as if old Mrs. Pentland were searching for something. In the haste of her escape and flight, her thin white hair had come undone and fell about her shoulders. A sickly smell of medicine hung about her.

Olivia touched her gently and said, “What have you lost, Mrs. Pentland? Can I help you?”

The old woman turned and, throwing the light of the torch full into Olivia’s face, stared at her with the round blue eyes, murmuring, “Oh, it’s you, Olivia. Then it’s all right. Perhaps you can help me.”

“What was it you lost? We might look for it in the morning.”

“I’ve forgotten what it was now. You startled me, and you know my poor brain isn’t very good, at best. It never has been since I married.” Sharply she looked at Olivia. “It didn’t affect you that way, did it? You don’t ever drift away and feel yourself growing dimmer and dimmer, do you? It’s odd. Perhaps it’s different with your husband.”

Olivia saw that the old woman was having one of those isolated moments of clarity and reason which were more horrible than her insanity because for a time she made you see that, after all, she was like yourself, human and capable of thought. To Olivia these moments were almost as if she witnessed the rising of the dead.

“No,” said Olivia. “Perhaps if we went to bed now, you’d remember in the morning.”

Old Mrs. Pentland shook her head violently. “No, no, I must find them now. It may be all different in the morning and I won’t know anything and that Irish woman won’t let me out. Say over the names of a few things like prunes, prisms, persimmons. That’s what Mr. Dickens used to have his children do when he couldn’t think of a word.”

“Let me have the light,” said Olivia; “perhaps I can find what it is you want.”

With the meekness of a child, the old woman gave her the electric torch and Olivia, turning it this way and that, among the trunks and old rubbish, made a mock search among the doll-houses and the toy dishes left scattered in the corner of the attic where the children had played house for the last time.

While she searched, the old woman kept up a running comment, half to herself: “It’s something I wanted to find very much. It’ll make a great difference here in the lives of all of us. I thought I might find Sabine here to help me. She was here yesterday morning, playing with Anson. It rained all day and they couldn’t go out. I hid it here yesterday when I came up to see them.”

Olivia again attempted wheedling.

“It’s late now, Mrs. Pentland. We ought both to be in bed. You try to remember what it is you want, and in the morning I’ll come up and find it for you.”

For a moment the old woman considered this, and at last she said, “You wouldn’t give it to me if you found it. I’m sure you wouldn’t. You’re too afraid of them all.”

“I promise you I will. You can trust me, can’t you?”

“Yes, yes, you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me as if I wasn’t quite bright. Yes, I think I can trust you.” Another thought occurred to her abruptly. “But I wouldn’t remember again. I might forget. Besides, I don’t think Miss Egan would let me.”

Olivia took one of the thin old hands in hers and said, as if she were talking to a little child, “I know what we’ll do. To-morrow you write it out on a bit of paper and then I’ll find it and bring it to you.”

“I’m sure little Sabine could find it,” said the old woman. “She’s very good at such things. She’s such a clever child.”

“I’ll go over and fetch Sabine to have her help me.”

The old woman looked at her sharply. “You’ll promise that?” she asked. “You’ll promise?”

“Of course, surely.”

“Because all the others are always deceiving me.”

And then quite gently she allowed herself to be led across the moonlit patches of the dusty floor, down the stairs and back to her room. In the hall of the north wing they came suddenly upon the starched Miss Egan, all her starch rather melted and subdued now, her red face purple with alarm.

“I’ve been looking for her everywhere, Mrs. Pentland,” she told Olivia. “I don’t know how she escaped. She was asleep when I left. I went down to the kitchen for her orange-juice, and while I was gone she disappeared.”

It was the old woman who answered. Looking gravely at Olivia, she said, with an air of confidence, “You know I never speak to her at all. She’s common. She’s a common Irish servant. They can shut me up with her, but they can’t make me speak to her.” And then she began to drift back again into the hopeless state that was so much more familiar. She began to mumble over and over again a chain of words and names which had no coherence.

Olivia and Miss Egan ignored her, as if part of her--the vaguely _rational_ old woman--had disappeared, leaving in her place this pitiful chattering creature who was a stranger.

Olivia explained where it was she found the old woman and why she had gone there.

“She’s been talking on the subject for days,” said Miss Egan. “I think it’s letters that she’s looking for, but it may be nothing at all. She mixes everything terribly.”

Olivia was shivering now in her nightdress, more from weariness and nerves than from the chill of the night.

“I wouldn’t speak of it to any of the others, Miss Egan,” she said. “It will only trouble them. And we must be more careful about her in the future.”

The old woman had gone past them now, back into the dark room where she spent her whole life, and the nurse had begun to recover a little of her defiant confidence. She even smiled, the hard, glittering smile which always said, “You cannot do without me, whatever happens.”

Aloud she said, “I can’t imagine what happened, Mrs. Pentland.”

“It was an accident, never mind,” said Olivia. “Good-night. Only I think it’s better not to speak of what has happened. It will only alarm the others.”

But she was puzzled, Olivia, because underneath the dressing-gown Miss Egan had thrown about her shoulders she saw that the nurse was dressed neither in night-clothes nor in her uniform, but in the suit of blue serge that she wore on the rare occasions when she went into the city.

5

She spoke to no one of what had happened, either on the terrace or in the lane or in the depths of the old attic, and the days came to resume again their old monotonous round, as if the strange, hot, disturbing night had had no more existence than a dream. She did not see O’Hara, yet she heard of him, constantly, from Sybil, from Sabine, even from Jack, who seemed stronger than he had ever been and able for a time to go about the farm with his grandfather in the trap drawn by an old white horse. There were moments when it seemed to Olivia that the boy might one day be really well, and yet there was never any real joy in those moments, because always in the back of her mind stood the truth. She knew it would never be, despite all that fierce struggle which she and the old man kept up perpetually against the thing which was stronger than either of them. Indeed, she even found a new sort of sadness in the sight of the pale thin boy and the rugged old man driving along the lanes in the trap, the eyes of the grandfather bright with a look of deluding hope. It was a look which she found unbearable because it was the first time in years, almost since that first day when Jack, as a tiny baby who did not cry enough, came into the world, that the expression of the old man had changed from one of grave and uncomplaining resignation.

Sometimes when she watched them together she was filled with a fierce desire to go to John Pentland and tell him that it was not her fault that there were not more children, other heirs to take the place of Jack. She wanted to tell him that she would have had ten children if it were possible, that even now she was still young enough to have more children. She wanted to pour out to him something of that hunger of life which had swept over her on the night in Sabine’s garden beneath the apple-tree, a spot abounding in fertility. But she knew, too, how impossible it was to discuss a matter which old John Pentland, in the depths of his soul believed to be “indelicate.” Such things were all hidden behind a veil which shut out so much of truth from all their lives. There were times when she fancied he understood it all, those times when he took her hand and kissed her affectionately. She fancied that he understood and that the knowledge lay somehow at the root of the old man’s quiet contempt for his own son.

But she saw well enough the tragedy that lay deep down at the root of the whole matter. She understood that it was not Anson who was to blame. It was that they had all been caught in the toils of something stronger than any of them, a force which with a cruel injustice compelled her to live a dry, monotonous, barren existence when she would have embraced life passionately, which compelled her to watch her own son dying slowly before her eyes.

Always she came back to the same thought, that the boy must be kept alive until his grandfather was dead; and sometimes, standing on the terrace, looking out across the fields, Olivia saw that old Mrs. Soames, dressed absurdly in pink, with a large picture-hat, was riding in the trap with the old man and his grandson, as if in reality she were the grandmother of Jack instead of the mad old woman abovestairs.

The days came to resume their round of dull monotony, and yet there was a difference, odd and indefinable, as if in some way the sun were brighter than it had been, as if those days, when even in the bright sunlight the house had seemed a dull gray place, were gone now. She could no longer look across the meadows toward the bright new chimneys of O’Hara’s house without a sudden quickening of breath, a warm pleasant sensation of no longer standing quite alone.

She was not even annoyed any longer by the tiresome daily visits of Aunt Cassie, nor by the old woman’s passion for pitying her and making wild insinuations against Sabine and O’Hara and complaining of Sybil riding with him in the mornings over the dew-covered fields. She was able now simply to sit there politely as she had once done, listening while the old woman talked on and on; only now she did not even listen with attention. It seemed to her at times that Aunt Cassie was like some insect beating itself frantically against a pane of glass, trying over and over again with an unflagging futility to enter where it was impossible to enter.

It was Sabine who gave her a sudden glimpse of penetration into this instinct about Aunt Cassie, Sabine who spent all her time finding out about people. It happened one morning that the two clouds of dust, the one made by Aunt Cassie and the other by Sabine, met at the very foot of the long drive leading up to Pentlands, and together the two women--one dressed severely in shabby black, without so much as a fleck of powder on her nose, the other dressed expensively in what some Paris dressmaker chose to call a _costume de sport_, with her face made up like a Parisian--arrived together to sit on the piazza of Pentlands insulting each other subtly for an hour. When at last Sabine managed to outstay Aunt Cassie (it was always a contest between them, for each knew that the other would attack her as soon as she was out of hearing) she turned to Olivia and said abruptly, “I’ve been thinking about Aunt Cassie, and I’m sure now of one thing. Aunt Cassie is a virgin!”

There was something so cold-blooded and sudden in the statement that Olivia laughed.

“I’m sure of it,” persisted Sabine with quiet seriousness. “Look at her. She’s always talking about the tragedy of her being too frail ever to have had children. She never tried. That’s the answer. She never tried.” Sabine tossed away what remained of the cigarette she had lighted to annoy Aunt Cassie, and continued. “You never knew my Uncle Ned Struthers when he was young. You only knew him as an old man with no spirit left. But he wasn’t that way always. It’s what she did to him. She destroyed him. He was a full-blooded kind of man who liked drinking and horses and he must have liked women, too, but she cured him of that. He would have liked children, but instead of a wife he only got a woman who couldn’t bear the thought of not being married and yet couldn’t bear what marriage meant. He got a creature who fainted and wept and lay on a sofa all day, who got the better of him because he was a nice, stupid, chivalrous fellow.”

Sabine was launched now with all the passion which seized her when she had laid bare a little patch of life and examined it minutely.

“He didn’t even dare to be unfaithful to her. If he looked at another woman she fainted and became deathly ill and made terrible scenes. I can remember some of them. I remember that once he called on Mrs. Soames when she was young and beautiful, and when he came home Aunt Cassie met him in hysterics and told him that if it ever happened again she would go out, ‘frail and miserable as she was,’ and commit adultery. I remember the story because I overheard my father telling it when I was a child and I was miserable until I found out what ‘committing adultery’ meant. In the end she destroyed him. I’m sure of it.”

Sabine sat there, with a face like stone, following with her eyes the cloud of dust that moved along the lane as Aunt Cassie progressed on her morning round of visits, a symbol in a way of all the forces that had warped her own existence.

“It’s possible,” murmured Olivia.

Sabine turned toward her with a quick, sudden movement. “That’s why she is always so concerned with the lives of other people. She has never had any life of her own, never. She’s always been afraid. It’s why she loves the calamities of other people, because she’s never had any of her own. Not even her husband’s death was a calamity. It left her free, completely free of troubles as she had always wanted to be.”

And then a strange thing happened to Olivia. It was as if a new Aunt Cassie had been born, as if the old one, so full of tears and easy sympathy who always appeared miraculously when there was a calamity in the neighborhood, the Aunt Cassie who was famous for her good works and her tears and words of religious counsel, had gone down the lane for the last time, never to return again. To-morrow morning a new Aunt Cassie would arrive, one who outwardly would be the same; only to Olivia she would be different, a woman stripped of all those veils of pretense and emotions with which she wrapped herself, an old woman naked in her ugliness who, Olivia understood in a blinding flash of clarity, was like an insect battering itself against a pane of glass in a futile attempt to enter where it was impossible for her ever to enter. And she was no longer afraid of Aunt Cassie now. She did not even dislike her; she only pitied the old woman because she had missed so much, because she would die without ever having lived. And she must have been young and handsome once, and very amusing. There were still moments when the old lady’s charm and humor and sharp tongue were completely disarming.

Sabine was talking again, in a cold, unrelenting voice. “She lay there all those years on the sofa covered with a shawl, trying to arrange the lives of every one about her. She killed Anson’s independence and ruined my happiness. She terrorized her husband until in the end he died to escape her. He was a good-natured man, horrified of scenes and scandals.” Sabine lighted a cigarette and flung away the match with a sudden savage gesture. “And now she goes about like an angel of pity, a very brisk angel of pity, a harpy in angel’s clothing. She has played her rôle well. Every one believes in her as a frail, good, unhappy woman. Some of the saints must have been very like her. Some of them must have been trying old maids.”

She rose and, winding the chiffon scarf about her throat, opened her yellow parasol, saying, “I know I’m right. She’s a virgin. At least,” she added, “in the technical sense, she’s a virgin. I know nothing about her mind.”

And then, changing abruptly, she said, “Will you go up to Boston with me to-morrow? I’m going to do something about my hair. There’s gray beginning to come into it.”

Olivia did not answer her at once, but when she did speak it was to say, “Yes; I’m going to take up riding again and I want to order clothes. My old ones would look ridiculous now. It’s been years since I was on a horse.”

Sabine looked at her sharply and, looking away again, said, “I’ll stop for you about ten o’clock.”